Chapter LXXXIV
CHAPTER LXXXIV
Wyatt Riggins emerged from hiding once the attackers had left. He had been in the basement when the assault commenced, looking for a bottle of good wine with which to pass the time. As soon as he heard the shooting, he decided to stay where he was. Riggins wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t suicidal either. If he left, he’d be entering a crisis situation in which he lacked knowledge of the threat and the disposition of the opposing forces. He’d also be doing it unarmed since he’d left his gun on the kitchen table, so he stayed quiet and listened to what he could make out from the exchanges above.
Riggins hoped that Zetta had managed to get as far away as possible. As for the final child, Riggins had heard something about its being missing, which meant Triton might have found somewhere to conceal it as soon as the attack commenced. Riggins wondered if Triton was dead. If so, the absence of the child was the only obstacle to the whole sorry affair being over and done with.
Carefully, Riggins ascended. If he couldn’t find Zetta, he’d leave without her and make contact again once he’d found them somewhere safe to stay. She wouldn’t have to worry about the police. She’d done nothing wrong. Neither had he, or nothing that could be proven, but it would be better if he was gone before they arrived.
He was two steps from the basement door when he smelled the smoke and heard the crackle of flames. The house was burning. Urrea’s people must have set it ablaze in a final act of spite before they left. The door was ajar. Through the gap, Riggins could see the open front entrance and the night beyond. Wherever the fire had started, it had not yet reached the hallway.
Riggins lay flat on the stairs before easing the door wider, giving him a clearer view of his escape route while making himself difficult to hit, but he saw no one, and no shots followed. He risked a glance around the doorframe, again to no response. To his right, the stairs leading to the second floor were half-obscured by smoke, and heat was coming from above. The fire must have been set upstairs, which was good news for him. More smoke was seeping from around the fittings of the hallway chandelier and billowing from the open coat closet by the front door. It looked like something in there had already caught fire as the flames ate through the floorboards above, but his attention was fixed on the rectangle of star-filled sky. It represented life.
Riggins made his move, his sweater pulled up over his nose and mouth to shield him from the smoke. He was just passing the closet when the pall inside assumed human form. Riggins reacted too late to the threat, and the blade entered beneath his left arm before punching straight through to his heart.
Riggins stumbled back, the blade still embedded in his torso, as a rush of blood filled his mouth. He bounced off the wall and slid to the floor, his head coming to rest against a mahogany table. The last sight to which he was privy before he died was a withered face in the process of disintegration, the features flaking scraps of skin like pale moths taking flight, and beneath the skin was—
Nothing, nothing at all.